Christmas Collage
by Sgt. Moffitt
Summary: A collection of previously posted Christmas stories.
1. A Crittendon Christmas

_A/N: I don't own Hogan's Heroes and I don't get paid for this; it is truly a labor of love._ _First posted in 2011._

A Christmas Eve spent far from home...

* * *

Ah, I remember it well...

It was December 24, 1940, at Stalag 18, somewhere in Germany. We had all gathered round the common room table in our barracks, and I was listening to the usual give and take among the lads.

Potter came through the door, letting in a swirl of snow. He spotted me sitting at the table and came to attention. "Sir!"

I put him at ease, and said, "Yes, yes, I have indeed returned, Potter. As you can see, the Kommandant let me out of the cooler a day early."

He went over to the stove and started to warm his hands. "How far did you get this time, sir?"

I had to think about that for a moment. "Only about two or three miles, I fear."

Gower looked at me and shook his head. "Pardon me for asking, sir, but since you've tried to escape twice so far, and been recaptured both times..."

I chuckled. "Kept Jerry busy for a while, though, didn't I? I must admit that I am not good at this escape business, but I shall continue trying. The Jerries think I'm the worst kind of duffer: very well, let them think it. While they're laughing at my poor attempts, other fellows will be planning escapes in earnest!"

Gower was a little taken aback. "Oh! And here I thought you were a bit barmy, begging your pardon, sir. And, uh, sir, I've been meaning to ask..." he hesitated.

"No need to be shy," I said kindly. "Out with it, man!"

"Well, there's one other thing I've been wondering, sir...why do the Germans call you Colonel?"

"Been wondering that meself," said Hatch.

I sighed; a touchy subject, this. "A bit of a misunderstanding, don't you know. When I was taken prisoner, the Jerry who interrogated me didn't seem to have a proper grasp of British military rank at all. Couldn't understand the concept of Group Captain, and kept leafing through a book he had on various military designations. Finally he decided that I must be a colonel, and once he put it in the record, well, there it was! You know how methodical the Jerries are."

The others all nodded glumly. Yes, they knew very well how methodical the Jerries were.

There was a silence for a time, then Wainwright said, "It's Christmas Eve, you know."

"Don't remind me," muttered Bailey.

"I wonder what my family is doing right now," said Potter.

"I've 'ad no mail yet," said Hatch. "P'raps they've all forgotten me."

"It's hard not to feel forgotten," admitted Gower. "They're still fighting a war back home. Who would have the time to remember us blokes?"

"We're not forgotten, chaps," I said with conviction. "We must all keep that in mind." I had to smile as a thought occurred to me. "That was the idea behind the Crittendon Plan, actually."

Wainwright looked up. "The Crittendon Plan, sir?"

"Why, yes," I said. "Part of it—but only part, mind you—involved planting crimson geraniums along all the runways, so returning airmen would feel welcomed home."

Some of the fellows started to snicker, but Hatch nodded. "I should 'ave liked to have seen that, meself," he said. "A bit o' normal life, you might say. It would remind the fellows of what we are fighting for—ordinary, simple things like flowers in the garden, and Mum, and plum pudding."

"Taking my girl to the pictures," Wainwright put in wistfully.

"Summers at Blackpool," added Gower.

I smiled ruefully. "A decent cup of tea."

Potter nodded. "Afternoons on the cricket pitch."

"Fish and chips." Hatch had a faraway look in his eye.

"Ah, belt up, will you?"

Everyone turned to look at Bailey. True, the chap was pugnacious by nature, but his contribution to the rather innocuous conversation took us all by surprise.

"Is there a problem, Sergeant?" I enquired mildly.

"I can't take it, sir," he burst out. "Talking about 'ome just makes it worse! Sitting 'ere in this bloody camp day after day, not knowing what's 'appening at 'ome..."

I regarded the fellow thoughtfully. It was time to rally the troops, by Jove!

I said with a bracing tone, "Jerry didn't succeed in invading Britain, did he? Thanks to you lot, and to our lads who are still flying. And thanks to people like my sister Kay and her family and your families, who are all keeping the home fires burning."

Gower sighed. "But Britain stands alone now. How long can we possibly hold out, all alone?"

"What about the bloody Yanks, eh?" growled Bailey, and the others murmured agreement.

"Ah yes, the Yanks." I thought for a moment. "Actually, old Winnie said it best: 'You can always count on Americans to do the right thing—after they have tried everything else.' "

 _"_ But _when_ will they do the right thing?" complained Potter. "What the hell are they waiting for—an engraved invitation from Jerry?"

I shook my head. "Don't forget, my dear fellow, that they're still neutral. They might speak English—after a fashion—but they have a large immigrant population, don't you know, and many are sympathetic to the German cause. Plus, I fear the Americans listen far too much to Joseph Kennedy. An excellent fellow in many ways, no doubt, but perhaps not quite the right person to be Ambassador to Britain. And, of course, there _was_ that rather unpleasant business in 1814 when we burned down Washington."

"Served 'em right for invading Canada," grumbled Wainwright, who happened to be an RCAF flight lieutenant from Nova Scotia.

"Well, we'll let bygones be bygones, shall we?" I said. "But I trust that the Americans will see the light eventually. They _are_ sending aid, don't you know, in spite of their avowed neutrality. God willing, by this time next year they will have joined our cause in earnest."

Hatch frowned. "But for now..."

"For now, let us remember tonight is Christmas Eve," I said. "It's a time to think of dear old England, and the ones we left at home. We're still fighting for them, don't forget. It's a different fight than before, and in many ways a more difficult one. But I know we shall prevail. And I know our people would like to think of us celebrating this occasion, just as they are at home. So, anyone for a carol or two, what? Who should like to start?"

"I will," said Bailey.

We all turned to look at him again. I felt quite certain that the last time he had darkened the door of a church he was wearing his christening gown. However, far be it from me to discourage the fellow.

"Splendid!" I said heartily. "Which one do you choose?"

Bailey looked down, shuffling his feet. "Actually, sir, I'd like to 'ave the Nine Lessons and Carols. Like we 'ad at 'ome."

A little to my surprise, all of the men in the barracks agreed with enthusiasm. And so a Bible was brought forth from its hiding place, and we all gathered round for the traditional service of Scripture readings and hymns.

When it came time for the lesson from the second chapter of Luke, Bailey put aside the Bible, and stood up straight, hands behind his back, and recited from memory:

 _And there were in the same country_  
 _shepherds abiding in the field,_  
 _keeping watch over their flock by night._

 _And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them,_  
 _and the glory of the Lord shone round about them;_  
 _and they were sore afraid._

 _And the angel said unto them,_  
 _Fear not: for, behold,_  
 _I bring you good tidings of great joy,_  
 _which shall be to all people._

 _For unto you is born this day_  
 _in the city of David a Saviour,_  
 _which is Christ the Lord._

 _And this shall be a sign unto you:_  
 _Ye shall find the babe_  
 _wrapped in swaddling clothes,_  
 _lying in a manger._

 _And suddenly there was with the angel_  
 _a multitude of the heavenly host_  
 _praising God, and saying,_

 _Glory to God in the highest,_  
 _and on earth peace, good will toward men._

Peace on earth, I thought to myself as I looked round at the serious, absorbed faces of the lads...young men who had seen more of death and suffering than any human being ought. Young men who had no idea what the future would bring.

Yet still they believed that someday there would, indeed, be peace on earth and good will toward men. They would keep the faith.

And so would I.


	2. On Christmas Morning

_A/N: I don't own Hogan's Heroes and I don't get paid for this; it is truly a labor of love._ _First posted in 2015._

A little kindness can change everything...

* * *

December 25, 1941

Someone clicked on the overhead light that dreary morning, and although the solitary bulb could best be described as dim, Louis LeBeau squinted at the sudden illumination and pulled the threadbare blanket over his head.

Every morning for the last couple of weeks Louis had found himself reluctant to face the day, and this one was no different as he felt the familiar rush of anger and despair sweep over him. He had planned to be in England by now, joining his brothers of the Free French. Instead, the escape he and Newkirk had so carefully planned had gone sadly awry, landing him in the hospital and Newkirk in the cooler.

And now it was _le jour de Noël_ and here they were at Stalag 13: Newkirk still in the cooler and he, LeBeau, lying in his bunk with one leg in cast. Louis pulled the blanket down again and stared at the slats of the bunk above him, preoccupied with his thoughts.

The past two weeks of forced inaction at the hospital in Hammelburg had been difficult to bear, surrounded by _Boches_ as he had been. Not that Louis had been mistreated there; he grudgingly admitted to himself that the doctors and nurses had done their job properly. But they were still Germans and he was Free French, and he _hated_ Germans.

One cannot have spent time in the clutches of the Gestapo and not hate Germans, and Louis had spent a very unpleasant few days with the Gestapo prior to being sent to Stalag 13. That had been earlier this year, and the intervening months had not improved his opinion of his captors. They were all too convinced that they were the master race, and Colonel Klink's tendency to lecture every morning on the glorious Third Reich was further proof of that delusion. Filthy _Boches!_

While the other residents of Barracks 2 grumbled and groaned as they pulled on whatever warm clothing was available, Louis' thoughts went to his and Newkirk's failed escape. Their recapture had all been all his fault, and he groaned inwardly. He wasn't sure exactly what had happened at the time, but he remembered stumbling in the snow over a hidden tree root and falling to the ground. The next thing he knew, he was in a hospital bed between clean sheets with a pillow under his head.

His first thought on regaining consciousness was to wonder if Newkirk had sustained injury himself. Perhaps he'd been shot, trying to escape! But that fear was swiftly allayed when Sergeant Schultz visited him on Louis' second day in the hospital.

 _"Nein,_ your friend is unhurt. He is perfectly safe...in the cooler," the Sergeant told him, shaking his head. "I do not understand why you wanted to escape! Were you not happy at the camp? Was it something I did?"

Louis hadn't dignified that with an answer. In fact, he spoke only a few words with Schultz on that occasion, and didn't bother to speak with the hospital staff at all, except to make his needs known. For the next seventeen days he was a prisoner in that comfortable hospital bed, allowed up only toward the end of his incarceration in order to learn how to walk with crutches.

During that time Louis had plenty of leisure to brood over the lost opportunity of the ill-fated escape attempt, and his bitterness, anger, and self-loathing had only intensified during those seventeen days. His arrival back at Stalag 13 yesterday had done nothing to change that; in fact, it had made his mood even worse.

And the despairing mood persisted on this Christmas morning. It was still dark, but it was time for _Appell_ and the other POWs were almost ready to go outside. Louis sat up on his bunk, swinging his casted leg over to rest at an awkward angle as he pulled on his ragged sweater and reached for his coat, beret and scarf. He had to clench his teeth against the aching of his leg, but he ignored the sympathetic murmurings of his bunkmates, not wanting or needing their pity.

He fiercely shook off the hands that would have helped him to arise, and got to his feet unassisted, leaning heavily on his crutches (which someone had thoughtfully propped against his bunk). Then he shuffled his way through the barracks door (which someone had thoughtfully left open) to his accustomed spot in the front row. By this time he was pale and sweating despite the biting cold, but he held himself as tall and as straight as he could while Sergeant Schultz laboriously counted each man.

After Schultz finally muttered _"Fünfzehn!"_ in a tone of equal parts triumph and relief, he paused and gazed uncertainly at the small figure balancing precariously on crutches. Louis glared back at him in defiance—he would remain upright during roll call if it killed him! Schultz sighed and turned to face the approaching Kommandant, saluting smartly.

Fortunately, in compassion for the injured Frenchman or perhaps because he was anxious to get to his Christmas breakfast, Colonel Klink was not disposed to lecture this frosty morning. "Dis-missed!" he said absently, returning Schultz's salute and hurrying back to the Kommandantur without delay.

Schultz in turn dismissed the shivering group outside Barracks 2, and the POWs made a bee-line for the mess hall. All except Louis, who made an awkward turn on his crutches, with the intent of heading back into the barracks.

Schultz got there first and swung the door wide to allow the Frenchman to pass through. Louis muttered his thanks and got inside the barracks, which was only marginally warmer than the compound outside. He carefully lowered himself onto one of the stools clustered around the common room table, with his casted leg angled stiffly to one side.

He looked up at Schultz, wondering why the Sergeant hadn't left the barracks and wishing very much that he would. But Schultz lingered, glancing around the common room, pursing his lips and shaking his head over the general disarray. The barracks was as dismal as ever, even with the "MERRY CHRISTMAS" banner made of paper cut-out letters and strung between two bunks.

As Louis watched with a frown, the big German moved over to the little stove in the middle of the room and opened the door to peer at the languid fire flickering inside. He added a couple of pieces of kindling to the fire and stirred it briskly until it was burning properly. Satisfied, Schultz closed the stove door and straightened, one hand to the small of his back.

 _"Ach!_ I do not bend as well as I used to." He looked pointedly at the coffee-pot resting on top of the stove. "Do you have any coffee in the pot, Cockroach?"

Louis simmered with resentment at the use of the hated nickname, but even more so at the Sergeant's casual sense of entitlement regarding the prisoners' precious coffee ration. _"Oui,"_ he muttered, adding sarcastically: "Help yourself."

 _"Danke."_ Schultz reached for a nearby tin mug and poured out a generous helping, and Louis simmered even more.

The Sergeant took the mug and settled himself onto a stool opposite the little Frenchman, carefully avoiding Louis' casted leg as he sat down. Then he placed the mug on the table and slid it across to Louis without spilling a drop.

"Drink, my little friend. You look cold."

Louis blinked with surprise, then slowly grasped the mug handle, raised the coffee to his lips and took a sip. "I _am_ cold. _Merci,_ Schultz. For your kindness."

Schultz shrugged. "It does not take much to be kind, even when there's a war on. And it is Christmas, is it not?"

"Christmas," echoed Louis bitterly. "Peace on earth. Good will to men."

Schultz's placid blue eyes met Louis' stormy dark ones. _"Ja, ja,_ I know there is no peace on earth, although I pray for it every night. Maybe there will never be peace on earth. But that does not mean there cannot be good will between the two of us sitting here."

Louis' eyes dropped as he struggled with the hate and bitterness that almost overwhelmed him. He stared into the depths of his mug of coffee and all he could see was darkness. But after a few moments, a calming thought drifted into his mind and he could feel himself relaxing. Even the ache in his leg subsided, and he looked back up at Schultz.

The person sitting across from him was a German, true, but he was also a human being, just as Louis was. And Schultz had shown him kindness, after all.

Louis smiled a little and raised his mug. "You are right, Schultz. For today, a truce!"

Schultz's eyes sparkled as he returned the smile, and he added a chuckle for good measure. As he watched Louis finish the coffee, the Sergeant reached into the capacious pocket of his greatcoat. "You cook, _ja?"_

Louis eyed him, his wariness returning. "I cook for the other prisoners, as best I can. Why?"

"Oh, nothing, Cockroach." Schultz's tone was elaborately casual and he peered around the empty barracks as if to make sure they were alone. Then he pulled an object from the pocket and placed it in the middle of the table.

Louis stared at it in disbelief. It was a knife, a kitchen knife, much like the ones he had used in his uncle's Parisian _bistro_ prior to the war. "For me?"

Schultz looked around again and lowered his voice. "It will help you to prepare the food."

Louis thought about the ragged bit of metal that he had been using for months in lieu of a proper knife. It had been fashioned from a Red Cross milk tin, and the unwieldy and dangerous tool was one of the banes of his existence. _"Oui,_ it will help very much! But isn't it forbidden for prisoners to have knives?"

The Sergeant was shocked. "Knives for prisoners? Are you _verrückt?_ Never mention such a thing again!" He put his big hands on the table and heaved himself to his feet, pausing for a moment to glance at the knife still resting innocently on the tabletop. "But if you should happen to find one, perhaps it might come in handy if a person wanted to slice up apples for _Apfelstrudel._ And if that person wanted to share the _Apfelstrudel_ with someone else. But what do I know? I know nothing!"

With that, Schultz strode to the doorway and picked up the rifle he had left propped against the wall. He pulled the door open and looked back over his shoulder at Louis. _"Frohe Weihnachten,_ Cockroach!"

Louis smiled again, this time with a twinkle in his eye." _Joyeux Noël_...Schultzie."


	3. How the Kommandant Stole Christmas

_A/N: I don't own Hogan's Heroes and I don't get paid for this; it is truly a labor of love. First posted in 2013._

 _Thanks to dust on the wind, whose lovely story "Lightly Falls the Snow" introduced me to the concept of Julfest._

In times like these, almost anyone could be a Grinch...

* * *

December 24, 1942

Sergeant Hans Schultz settled himself into Helga's office chair and ignored the protesting—and somewhat alarming—creak. He was just glad to give his poor suffering feet a rest before he had to go out into the cold again.

Helga was not in the office because she had been allowed leave for _Julfest,_ lucky girl! Schultz was pretty sure, though, that she and her family would not be celebrating the winter solstice in the approved Nazi fashion. Instead they would be observing a quiet family service at home for _Heiligabend,_ trying to pretend that Christmas in Germany had not really changed at all. Just as Schultz and his family tried to do.

He sighed. He was on duty, of course, but he wouldn't have been able to travel home to Heidelberg anyway: over one hundred kilometers, and in this weather! Still, it would have been nice to see Gretchen and the children at Christmastime.

A sound of annoyance was heard from the inner office and Schultz sighed again. No doubt the big shot was struggling with paperwork as usual, and for what? Those piles of papers would still be there on his return, had the Kommandant decided to leave the Luftstalag to celebrate _Julfest._

But Colonel Klink was reluctant to leave the camp for some reason, and he had given his adjutant Captain Grüber leave instead. Schultz shook his head over the incomprehensible behavior of officers, and then jumped as the telephone on Helga's desk jangled.

He picked up the receiver, straightened the collar of his tunic, and assumed a businesslike expression. "Hallo, this is Luftstalag 13, Sergeant Schultz speaking. It is? _Das ist gut!_ We have been waiting for so long...what?" His eyes widened in consternation. _"Ach, das ist schlecht!"_

Schultz listened some more, and a relieved smile appeared. "Oh, _das ist gut! Ja, ja_...I shall try to arrange it with the Kommandant. _Auf Wiederhören!"_

He pushed the chair away from the desk and heaved himself to his feet. The telephone message meant a trip to Hammelburg—in the snow, no less!—but it would be worth it. He smiled as he lifted his hand to tap on the Kommandant's door.

* * *

Colonel Wilhelm Klink stared morosely at his cluttered desk. Paperwork! Endless, monotonous, repetitive paperwork. How on earth did Germans ever get a reputation for efficiency, when every little occurrence had to be recorded in triplicate? He gave an irritated flick to one of the papers and it took flight, lofting gently from the desktop to the floor. Klink didn't bother to pick it up, didn't even glance at it.

But the unending paperwork wasn't the real cause of his discontent. Tonight was _Heiligabend,_ and it would be the third Christmas Eve he had spent in this dreary place. True, he could have gone home to Düsseldorf to spend it with his mother and his good-for-nothing brother Wolfgang, but Klink wasn't about to leave the camp and entrust his no-escape record to Grüber.

Not since Luftstalag 13 had acquired a Senior POW Officer, anyway. Klink had to admit that Colonel Hogan was unfailingly pleasant and polite to him, and often offered unasked-for advice, but it was Hogan's duty to escape, after all, and Klink knew he must be vigilant if he were to keep the valuable American prisoner in his charge.

Even if it meant spending Christmas at Luftstalag 13. Not that Christmas in Germany was the same as Klink remembered from his youth. There was nothing religious about it anymore; certainly it had nothing to do with peace on earth, good will to men.

But Klink, of necessity, had adjusted over the years; he'd never been a particularly religious fellow anyway. And there was no sense rocking the boat, not under this regime.

At least, he thought he had adjusted. But there was a void, an emptiness about the season that engendered a similar emptiness in his heart: an emptiness that manifested itself in a restlessness and irritability that Klink couldn't understand, much less control.

All he knew was this: it was Christmas, he was unhappy, and the prisoners were somehow to blame. Especially Colonel Hogan.

So when the tap sounded on the door, Klink was in no mood to be pleasant. _"Herein!"_ he barked, and the door opened with a timid squeak, to reveal the rotund figure of Luftstalag 13's Sergeant of the Guard.

Schultz's round blue eyes were anxious as he stuttered, "If you please, _Herr Kommandant..."_

Klink glowered at his hapless subordinate. "What is it now, Schultz? Can't you see that I'm busy?"

The Sergeant gulped but stood his ground. "It is a message from Hammelburg, _Herr Kommandant._ The truck carrying the Red Cross packages for the prisoners has broken down there. They are asking us to send one of our trucks to collect the packages."

Klink's frown was so forceful that it nearly shattered his monocle. "What presumption! It is not our business to do the work of the Red Cross!"

"But, Kommandant, the prisoners have waited for so long! I still need to distribute the letters that arrived today, but I thought afterwards I could use one of the camp trucks to..."

"Schultz! You will do no such thing. Those packages will get here when they get here—we are not going to fetch and carry for those miserable prisoners!"

Schultz gasped. "But, Kommandant! It is Christmas Eve...it would mean so much to them."

"Silence! There is no Christmas in Germany...not for us, and certainly not for them." Klink rose from his desk and approached the Sergeant menacingly. "And you can forget about distributing those letters, too. There was an escape attempt last week, and those men do not deserve to get their mail the minute it arrives in camp. They will have to wait until I decide they have earned it!"

 _"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant,"_ Schultz said. His voice was subdued and his face was noncommittal, but his eyes held just a hint of accusation, and Klink was enraged anew.

"Dismissed!"

* * *

Yes, his action—or rather, inaction—had been spiteful. And unnecessary. But depriving the prisoners (even temporarily) of something they wanted very much gave Klink a sense of control, a sense of power that was otherwise sadly lacking in his life.

On the other hand, it did nothing for the emptiness in his heart. To put it bluntly, ever since the Nazis had come to power his heart had begun to shrivel. And as of today his heart was two sizes too small.

That being so, it gave him perverse pleasure to visit Barracks 2 that afternoon, just to revel in the bleakness of it all. The dim interior was crowded and hazy with cigarette smoke, and he waved his hand irritably in front of his nose as his gaze searched out the Senior POW Officer.

Hogan was standing by the common room table, stringing a metallic chain on a pitiful-looking bush. The bush was already festooned with a collection of dog tags, paper stars, and strips of tinfoil apparently purloined from cigarette packages. It was pathetic.

Hogan looked up as Klink entered, with a question in his eyes. "Here to wish us a merry Christmas, Colonel?"

Klink smiled the only smile that his shriveled heart would allow: an unpleasant, sneering grimace that chilled to the bone. "Nothing very merry about it, is there, Colonel Hogan? But then you sentimental fools celebrate everything; no doubt you will celebrate your inevitable defeat at the hands of the glorious Third Reich!"

Hogan's jaw tightened but he said only, "I've been meaning to talk with you, sir; the men have had no mail for weeks. And we're due for a shipment of Red Cross packages, aren't we?"

"Bah!" said Klink. "You will get those items when they get here, and not before. The Luftwaffe pampers you far too much as it is!"

And he swaggered from the barracks with his head held high, impervious to the glares cast at him.

* * *

Back in his office, Klink put his feet up on the desk and leaned back with a satisfied smirk. The Allies were soft, no doubt about it. What a privilege it was to be German, and part of an all-conquering nation...

He dropped his feet to the floor with a thud as his mood plummeted. Was it a privilege, or a curse? Years of indoctrination gave way to an unbearable sense of shame and despair, and he could feel his heart shrivel even further.

Then he heard it...music wafting across the compound.

Klink got to his feet and swung his office window open. The tune was unfamiliar, but it was undoubtedly a Christmas carol. Then, over the hush of the falling snow, the words crystallized in the frosty air:

 _It came upon the midnight clear_  
 _That glorious song of old_  
 _From angels bending near the earth_  
 _To touch their harps of gold:_  
 _"Peace on the earth, good will to men_  
 _From heaven's all-gracious King."_  
 _The world in solemn stillness lay_  
 _To hear the angels sing._

Tears came to his eyes as he thought:

 _I'm afraid of the Nazis...and I hate them. Sometimes I hate myself. But...I really do want peace on earth, good will to men, just as those prisoners do. If only it could be!_

And what happened next even Klink couldn't say; could it be that his heart grew three sizes that day?

He turned away from the window. "Schultz!"

The Sergeant stuck his head cautiously into the office doorway. _"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant?"_

"Find Corporal Langenscheidt, at once!"

"But-but-but...why, _Herr Kommandant?"_

"He will need to take charge of the camp, _Dummkopf!_ You and I are going into town!"

* * *

Schultz clutched the door handle as the truck careened around a curve, skidding dangerously in the snow. _"Bitte, Herr Kommandant,_ I have a wife and five children—must you drive so fast?"

Colonel Klink squinted through his monocle at the flurries of snow and hunched his shoulders, gripping the steering wheel tightly. "Don't be silly, Schultz! How else can we get those Red Cross packages before Christmas?"

"But will we not need to be in one piece to collect the packages, _Herr Kommandant?"_

"Oh, shut up!"

Klink put his foot down on the accelerator and poor Schultz just closed his eyes. The engine roared, the truck bounced and slithered and shook and rattled, and Schultz cautiously opened his eyes just in time to see it: they were at the crest of the only hill between Luftstalag 13 and Hammelburg!

His mouth opened in a silent scream of terror as the truck zoomed down the hill, just managing to keep between the ditches which were barely visible on either side. Fortunately no one else was insane enough to be out on this night, and no other vehicle loomed in their path.

Klink grimly drove on, finally coming to a shuddering, skidding stop outside the Hofbräu, right behind another truck which was blanketed with snow. "This is where that Red Cross driver said he would be, isn't it, Schultz?"

The traumatized Sergeant could only whisper, _"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant."_

* * *

The patrons of the nearly empty Hofbräu looked up in amazement as the door flew open, revealing a very snowy Colonel Klink. "Where is Herr Richter?" he demanded.

A man seated at the bar abandoned his mug of _Bier_ and got to his feet. "I am Richter," he said with a strong Swiss accent, eyeing the newcomer with some surprise. "You came, after all? Even in this snow?"

 _"Ja, ja, ja,"_ said the Kommandant brusquely. "Come with me! We have no time to waste."

The barkeeper looked up as well. "You're going to move the Red Cross packages into a stalag truck?" he asked, obviously having heard the whole story from his out-of-town customer.

"Of course!" said Klink, almost dancing with impatience.

"Many hands make light work," observed the barkeeper as he set down the glass he had been polishing and reached for his overcoat. "I'll help you."

The other two occupants of the Hofbräu exchanged glances and reached for their own overcoats. "Why not?" said one of them. "We could use some fresh air."

Within minutes the Red Cross truck was emptied of its cargo and the packages were nestled in the back of the much-abused vehicle from Luftstalag 13. The barkeeper and his patrons wished them luck, and vanished back inside the cozy warmth of the Hofbräu.

Only Herr Richter lingered. "This is very good of you," he said. "God bless you."

Klink only nodded; he was still breathless from loading packages. Schultz stepped in, smiling at the Red Cross driver. "And you, too, _mein Herr. Gesegnete Weihnachten!"_

The Sergeant then turned to Klink and said, kindly but firmly: "You must be exhausted, _Herr Kommandant._ Shall I drive back to the camp?"

"Yes, yes," said Klink. "But hurry!"

* * *

The snow was falling ever more thickly as the truck approached the front gates. Corporal Langenscheidt had apparently been watching for their return, and he hurried to help Corporal Kohl open the gates.

As the truck rolled into the snowy compound, Klink stuck his head out of the passenger window, noting that the sound of singing was still wafting from the barracks. "Call an emergency assembly, at once!" he shouted.

 _"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant,"_ Langenscheidt saluted, and he nodded to Kohl. Shortly all the guards on duty were rushing to the various barracks, and the caroling was replaced by grumbling as the prisoners inside pulled on whatever warm clothing was available.

Soon all the men of Luftstalag 13 were gathered in the compound and glaring at the Kommandant, who stood before them in his usual manner, with riding crop tucked firmly under his arm. Schultz was at his side, trying to smile reassuringly at the prisoners, but Hogan would have none of that.

"With all due respect, Kommandant, this assembly clearly violates the Geneva Convention! It's Christmas Eve, and..." Hogan would have said more, but he was cut off.

"I have called this assembly for one reason only," said Klink. "As you can see, this truck has just arrived, and I wish it to be emptied as quickly as possible."

"You're asking for a work detail _tonight?"_ Hogan's voice was raised with a rare lapse into overt hostility, and Klink hastened to clarify the issue.

"Not exactly," he said. "This truck contains your Red Cross packages."

There was a moment of stunned silence, followed by a cheer from the assembled prisoners. Klink said briskly to the American colonel, who stood with jaw agape: "Well, what are you waiting for? Dismissed!"

* * *

Within minutes the truck was empty and the packages had been carried into the barracks. Meanwhile, Schultz emerged from the Kommandantur bearing a heavy sack, and he winked at Hogan as he went into Barracks 2. Another cheer erupted from the men inside, and a joyous shout was heard.

 _"Mail call!"_

Out in the compound Hogan hefted one of the Red Cross packages in his hand, and he looked up at Klink with a lopsided smile. "Thanks, Kommandant."

"I was only doing my duty," Klink said gruffly, and would have turned away, but Hogan spoke again.

"Merry Christmas, Colonel Klink."

The Kommandant caught his breath. Maybe there was a way to keep Christmas in his heart...could he perhaps cooperate with the American, and work toward the much-desired goal of peace on earth? He would find a way, somehow, even if Hogan never realized it.

And he smiled. "A blessed Christmas to you, Colonel Hogan."


	4. A Very Carter Christmas

_A/N: I don't own Hogan's Heroes and I don't get paid for this; it is truly a labor of love._ _First posted in 2014._

Sometimes a guy just needs a little boost of confidence...

* * *

December 24, 1943

The forest had never seemed so dark and deep, and although there was snow on the ground, a warm front moving through had caused a thick fog to rise, obscuring the outlines of the little clearing. Andrew shivered and reflected glumly that this was no place to be spending Christmas Eve, wartime or not.

Colonel Hogan looked around and sighed. "No help for it, men. The cache isn't here, and what's worse, I think we're lost."

 _"Lost?"_ LeBeau's voice rose to a squeak. "You cannot be serious!"

Kinch sighed too. "I'm afraid he's right, Louis. And now that I think about it, those map coordinates don't really make sense, considering the distance Karl and his group would have had to cover—carrying all that equipment too."

"Bloody _'ell!_ " Newkirk muttered. "And I know just the bloke who could manage to bollix up those coordinates."

All of the Heroes turned to look at Andrew, and he gulped.

Colonel Hogan said quietly, "Carter, did you happen to transpose the numbers of the coordinates when you wrote them down?"

Andrew gazed at his commander, a cold horror creeping over him that had nothing to do with the fog. "Oh, no, sir! I wrote them down exactly—I mean, I _think_ I wrote them down exactly—I mean..."

Newkirk threw up his hands and turned away. "Blimey! It's bloody Leedingham all over again!"

The icy darkness of LeBeau's eyes was visible even through the swirling mist. "You have done it again, _imbecile!"_

Kinch just shook his head.

The Colonel said, as he always did on such occasions: "All right, all right, it could've happened to anyone." But you could tell his heart wasn't in it.

As the scope of the disaster became clear to Andrew, he could hear snippets of past conversations in his head, and they all had to do with the same subject: Carter's incompetence.

 _"Don't tell me. You forgot to put film in the camera."_

 _"You lost the compass?"_

 _"You didn't set the time fuse?"_

 _"How stupid could one guy be?"_

 _"Why don't you join the other side?"_

It was the same story tonight, only much, much worse this time. They really needed the equipment in that cache, equipment which had been obtained with great difficulty by the Underground, and Andrew had blown it yet again. And the fog was getting heavier by the minute.

Finally Colonel Hogan made an executive decision. "We're just going around in circles in this fog; a few more steps and we might stumble into an enemy patrol. Everyone find a log or something and sit down. We might as well take a rest right now."

Andrew sank down onto a mossy hump, and he noted sadly that the others pointedly found places to sit as far away from him as possible. No wonder they didn't want to join him; he was such a screw-up. A loser. A misfit among professionals.

Andrew hung his head; he was dejected, and so very tired. He closed his eyes...

* * *

Two shimmering figures appeared out of the fog. One was a tall, slender black-haired lady whose aristocratic features proclaimed her Sioux ancestry, and the other was a plump little _Hausfrau_. Both were smiling at him.

Andrew sat up straight, stunned. It sort of takes a guy's breath away when his grandmothers show up in the middle of the night. In the middle of Germany. In the middle of World War Two.

 _"Oma! Kunsi!"_ he gasped.

"Hello, Little Deer," said _Kunsi_. Flower-of-the-Forest Carter was as strong and vibrant as ever, and she raised her hands slightly, as if conveying a blessing.

Klara Breitmeyer also looked just the same as ever, white-haired and rosy and clad with a crisp white apron over her calico dress. Andrew could almost smell the gingerbread baking.

 _"Guten Abend, mein Kind." Oma_ peered at him closely. "You look so thin! Are they not feeding you at that prison camp of yours?"

Andrew didn't respond to this because that was the way _Oma_ had always greeted him, even when he had been a relatively well-fed child in North Dakota. And he had a more serious concern.

 _"Oma, Kunsi_ —why are you here? You're—you're not _dead_ , are you?"

 _Kunsi_ looked offended. "My grandson the genius, and he can't tell the difference between a ghostly visitation and a dream?"

 _Oma_ clucked her tongue. "Such talk! Of course we are not dead, Andreas! Didn't you get the woolen stockings I knitted you for Hanukkah?"

"And the long underwear that I sent you for the Cold and Dark Moons?" _Kunsi_ sighed and turned to her companion. "I expect the Red Cross is very busy this time of year, Klara. We must make allowances for the child."

Andrew sighed too, but with relief. "Gosh, I'm glad to hear you're not dead. I mean, I know you're both real old and all that, but it sure was a shock to think..."

"Little Deer!" _Kunsi_ regarded him sternly. "We don't have much time, so you must listen."

 _Oma_ nodded. _"Ja_ , Flower is correct. Andreas, you have been uselessly blaming yourself for a mistake. You must not allow mistakes to overshadow the great gift that you possess."

"A great gift? Me?" Andrew stared at the two women. "I don't have any gifts. I'm just me, Andrew Carter."

"Yes, you are indeed Andrew Carter," _Kunsi_ nodded. "But you can be anyone you want, because not only are you able to speak many tongues, you understand what is in the heart of your fellow man." Her voice grew softer as she faded into the mists.

"I can be anyone I want? What do you mean?" Andrew strained to see, but _Kunsi_ had vanished.

"Anyone, Andreas." _Oma_ was fading away as well. "Remember Hans Wagner and _Kompanie C?_ And the _Doktor_ who examined Colonel Klink? And the Major who stopped that convoy? You can be anyone you need to be."

Both of his grandmothers had disappeared, but a chuckle emerged from the mists. "And, Little Deer: you made no mistake with the map coordinates tonight."

* * *

Andrew's eyes snapped open. A faint noise had roused him from the vision, or the dream, or whatever the heck it was, and he could see the noise had alerted Colonel Hogan and the others as well.

The Colonel lifted one hand, indicating the need for silence. And they could hear it more clearly now: stumbling footsteps crashing through the underbrush! The sounds grew ever closer, and Andrew got to his feet, not knowing what to expect.

All at once a young couple burst into the clearing, wild-eyed and gasping for breath, the woman clutching a bundle to her breast. And the reason for their terror was all too apparent: booted feet were rapidly approaching.

In the blink of an eye, Colonel Hogan swiftly guided the couple behind the only shelter available, a ragged-looking bush at the edge of the clearing. Meanwhile Kinch, Newkirk and LeBeau drew their weapons and took up defensive positions.

Andrew, on the other hand, did none of those things. He had no time to prepare, no facial disguise of mustache or eyeglasses, no official-looking uniform. He had none of the things that helped give him confidence when confronting the enemy.

But he did have two grandmothers who had faith in him. So he stepped to the edge of the clearing, and shouted: _"HALT!"_

The sounds approaching the clearing abruptly stopped somewhere in the distance. "Who is that?" a rough voice demanded.

"Major Lindenfelder, Gestapo," Andrew informed the unseen pursuers in a crisp, authoritative, and yet bored tone of voice. "I must give you warning, whoever you are."

There was a silence for two heartbeats, then the voice said sullenly, "Lieutenant Keisler, Third Division, SS. Warn us of what, _Herr Major?"_

"In the forest between us there lies a bog," said Andrew. "I do not know how deep it is, and I am sure you would not wish to find out for yourself. May I suggest that you carefully retrace your footsteps, rather than continue on your present course?"

A brief discussion ensued between the unseen owner of the voice and his companions. Finally Keisler said, "We are in pursuit of a dangerous enemy of the Reich, _Herr Major._ He and his wife must be nearby!"

"I have seen no one," said Andrew. "Perhaps the bog took care of that little problem for you, _ja?_ In any case, it is far too foggy to safely pursue anyone. I really believe you should take my advice, Lieutenant; our little encounter tonight will be reported to headquarters, of course."

Another silence, then: _"Jawohl, Herr Major."_

The booted footsteps retreated and the occupants of the little clearing began to breathe again.

The Heroes put away their guns and turned their attention to the young couple, whose wild-eyed terror had been replaced by wide-eyed bewilderment. They were youthful indeed, no older than Andrew, and the shawl-wrapped bundle the woman was clutching turned out to be an infant, no more than a few weeks old.

Each of the Heroes had an opportunity to chuck the baby under the chin while the woman smiled shyly. "Thank you so much for helping us," she said. "Although I do not understand why you did."

"Well, it's because we're the good guys, ma'am," Andrew said earnestly. "At least, we try to be."

Colonel Hogan glanced at him with a half-smile and then turned to the young couple. "I can't tell you who we are," he told them quietly. "But I _can_ tell you that we work with the Resistance effort here in Germany."

"That is what I wished to do," said the young man sadly. "But while we were at _Heiligabend_ services tonight we were warned that the SS had found my printing press." He sighed. "And now there is a price on my head, and my family is in danger."

"Looks like you'll have to continue your work elsewhere," said Colonel Hogan briskly. "I'm thinking London would be a good place."

The young man and his wife looked at each other, and then at Hogan. "London?" stammered the young man.

"We'll do our best to get you there, mate," said Newkirk.

 _"Mais oui!"_ LeBeau agreed. "We must get them to a safe house tonight, though."

"Right," said Kinch. "Looks like the mist is clearing a bit. What do you say, Colonel?"

"Colonel Hogan grinned. "I say we'd better get moving, as soon as we can figure out where the hell we are."

The young woman chuckled as she cuddled her baby close. "At least we can help you with that. We're a few miles from Bettelheim, on the northwest side."

Kinch checked his compass and looked up with a smile. "Okay, I've got a pretty good fix on our position now. Say, we never thought to ask: what are your names?"

"I am Josef," the young man said, and looked with pride at his wife and child. "And this is Maria."

"What's the baby's name?" asked Andrew, as he tickled the infant's chin once more.

Josef looked at Maria, and she said, "We have not yet had him christened. So it depends on one thing." She smiled at Andrew. "What is _your_ name?"

* * *

By the time the little family was deposited at the safe house it was dangerously close to roll call, and the Heroes had no opportunity to discuss the events of the night before. They had only time to exchange their civilian clothing for their customary uniforms before Schultz announced _Appell._

Andrew was sleepily standing in the back row next to Kinch, waiting for Schultz to complete his laborious count of the residents of Barracks 2 when Colonel Hogan looked back over his shoulder.

"By the way, Carter, you did good last night," the Colonel said with a smile. "I think Major Lindenfelder might come in _very_ handy in the future. And, Carter..."

"Yes, sir?"

"Merry Christmas."

* * *

 _A/N: In the episode "D-Day at Stalag 13", Carter takes on the persona of Major Lindenfelder, one of his most inspired German officer impersonations (and my personal favorite)._


	5. Christmas Eve

_A/N: I don't own Hogan's Heroes and I don't get paid for this; it is truly a labor of love. First posted in 2012, as one of the final chapters of "A POW's Best Friend"._

At Stalag 13 in the dark days following the Battle of the Bulge, both dogs and humans need all the hope they can muster...

* * *

December 24, 1944

Christmas Eve...what a time to get a radio communication from London, especially after the bad news they had received a week ago. Hogan looked at the message Baker had just handed him and frowned. He held it up closer to the flickering oil lamp, and began to read it aloud.

"Sabotaging of bridges to cease, repeat, do not sabotage bridges. Incorporate any escapers or evaders you encounter into present prison population. Intelligence gathering only authorized activity at this time, otherwise dig in for the duration. Relay message to underground contacts."

His men looked at each other, shaking their heads in disbelief.

"So we keep any new guys we come across," Baker mused. "Guess we can't say 'no room at the inn', huh?"

"How long is the bloody duration going to be, Colonel?" Newkirk asked. "What with the Jerries springing that offensive, and all..."

"And what do they mean about no more sabotaging of bridges?" Carter wanted to know. "I still got that batch of explosives from the last parachute drop!"

Hogan handed the slip of paper back to Baker. "It can mean only one thing. Despite the current setback, our tanks will be rolling into Germany soon and they'll want the bridges intact. Face it, fellas, our days at Uncle Wilhelm's boarding house are numbered. We just need to hang on."

"It won't be a minute too soon for me," Kinch growled, and Olsen grinned.

"Ah, to be back in jolly old London town." Newkirk closed his eyes, as though savoring the vision.

" _Mais, mon Colonel_...what will happen to the dogs?" LeBeau's face was troubled. "They have helped us as much as any members of the Resistance."

Hogan's jaw set and his eyes were narrowed with determination. "I'll tell Schnitzer to dig in as well. And after the war's over, I'll use all the leverage I can to make sure our Resistance friends are safe...including the dogs."

"You know, the real Rin Tin Tin got to go home with an American soldier after the first war," offered Carter. "Do you think we'd be allowed to adopt them?"

"Why not?" said Hogan. He looked around at the suddenly grinning faces. "Remember, it's Christmas Eve...you gotta have a little faith. And hope."

* * *

Oskar signed off on the radio and got to his feet. The Schnitzers were all gathered at the kitchen table to celebrate the Holy Evening, with the loaf of _Stollen_ ready to be sliced. His family looked at him with anxious expressions as he took his place at the table, and he smiled wryly. "I know Hitler has been trumpeting how the Ardennes offensive will mean certain victory for him, but he's wrong. The western Allies will be crossing into Germany soon: so, no more sabotaging of bridges. Colonel Hogan says we are to dig in."

Kurt whistled. "I think perhaps we shall have to cancel our trip to Remagen, then."

Maria cut into the fragrant loaf while Heidi poured out cups of ersatz coffee. "We shall have to concentrate on getting through the winter," she said. "It is good that the weather stayed clear for the harvest."

Emil accepted a slice of the rich sweet bread and scraped a very thin film of butter on it. " _Ja,_ we must give thanks for that. Kurt, you and Heidi and your workers have done well in producing as much food as you have this past summer...especially all the food that the district leader doesn't know about. It's up to us to use it wisely."

Oskar nodded. "Maria has it all rationed out between ourselves, our neighbors, the dogs, the prisoners and your workers. It will be tight, but we shall hang on." He smiled at Maria, who was blushing with pleasure at the murmurs of approval from everyone at the table.

She added, "And tonight's celebration was carefully planned for. I even sent cookies to the Luftstalag."

Oskar shook his head and chuckled. "And I was the lucky fellow who had to smuggle them in!"

The Schnitzers all chuckled too, then Heidi asked, "Do you think the war will be over by next _Heiligabend, Onkel_ Oskar?"

Oskar patted her hand reassuringly. "I believe it will be...we must have hope, _ja?"_

* * *

In the dog pen, Wolfgang looked up into the sky, far above the dim lights of the compound. The moon was nearing the full phase, and the stars were twinkling against the darkness. He took a deep breath of the frosty air and sighed.

One by one the other dogs emerged from the doghouses and sat nearby, all of them gazing up at the sky as well.

Finally, Frieda remarked, "You look very serious, Wolfgang."

He glanced at her with a rueful smile. "It's been a long road, hasn't it? But I believe the end is in sight; we just need to hang on."

Bismarck stirred. "I'm almost afraid to think about the future."

"We can dream, can't we?" Frieda said. "Dream about a time of peace among humans..."

"When the Schnitzers can go about their daily business without fear of the Gestapo," added Wolfgang.

"And our flock can return to their own homes," said Hans. "To places like America, and Australia, and England..."

"I wonder what Muncie is like," said Gerhardt. "Maybe it's a bit like Hammelburg."

Sieglinde nodded. "I wonder about the place where Olsen lives...I think it's called Minnesota."

Wolfgang shook his head and was about to speak, but Sieglinde forestalled him by repeating her mother's words. "We can dream, can't we?"

" _Ja,_ we can dream," Wolfgang said with a sigh, remembering a dream of his own.

"And hope," added Frieda softly.

"What would you like to do after the war, Bismarck?" asked Hans.

Bismarck scratched his ear as he pondered this. " _Opa_ Schnitzer needs a good dog to look after him, and I would like to be that dog; I think the Baroness would approve. How about you, Hans?"

Hans considered the question with his customary air of solemn reflection. "Dr Schnitzer often talks of the days when he trained dogs to become guides for the blind. I think I could do that...there's probably a lot of humans out there who need that kind of help."

Frieda gave him a smile of maternal pride. _"Sehr gut!_ Me, I'd like to spend my time at the farm, looking after things for Kurt and Heidi."

Fritzi said wistfully, "LeBeau talks of opening a restaurant in Paris after the war. Do you think he might need a good watchdog...one who can do tricks?"

"Why not?" said Frieda. "I imagine his customers would appreciate the entertainment. And you, Wolfgang...what would you like to be doing after the war?"

"I...don't know," said Wolfgang. "This camp has been my life for so long..."

Bismarck nodded, understanding what was going through his friend's mind. "You made it your mission to keep this flock safe, without thought for the future."

Wolfgang smiled a little and shrugged. "Each of these young humans makes me think of my boy Tommy; he would be about the age of the youngest of them by now. How could I _not_ want to protect them? But we've all worked toward that goal, haven't we?"

 _"Ja,"_ said Frieda. "We've kept them safe. I think we can be proud about that, no matter what the future brings."

The other dogs murmured agreement, but Bruno, who had been listening quietly, lifted his head and sniffed the air. "Oh, no..."

Wolfgang got to his feet, concerned. "What is it?"

"I think there's a prisoner on the loose inside the compound...and they're supposed to be confined to barracks after roll call."

"We spoke too soon about keeping them safe, didn't we?" said Wolfgang grimly. "I'll have to investigate."

Bruno got to his feet too, and looked at his leader appealingly. "Let me do it."

Wolfgang regarded him for a long moment, then nodded. "Fritzi, open the gate."

 _"Jawohl_ , Wolfgang." Fritzi trotted over to the gate and released the latch.

Bruno slipped through the open gate and paused to look back at the other dogs. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Wolfgang said, "Good luck, son."

* * *

In Barracks 5 after evening roll call, a young airman sat on his bunk, oblivious to his surroundings.

Jeff Duncan was in despair. The war news was bad, he hadn't received any letters from home in weeks, and today was his twenty-first birthday...it was all just too much to take. While everyone else in his barracks was having a quiet Christmas Eve celebration, he slipped out the barracks door, unnoticed.

The compound was empty of guards at the moment, and judging by the immobility of the searchlights in the watchtowers, Jeff figured that the guards up there had nodded off. He crept around the edge of the barracks in the shadows, seeking that one section of fence that had always fascinated him. It would be so easy to go through it, and get out of this place once and for all...

But not tonight. One of the guard dogs was standing there staring at him, and Jeff froze in fear.

* * *

Bruno said quietly to the prisoner, "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm here to help."

The young human looked puzzled now instead of afraid, and Bruno stepped closer. "Didn't you know? On Christmas Eve, animals are given the ability to speak. Or, to be more precise, some humans are given the ability to understand. Can't you tell me what's wrong?"

"I...I don't know if I can..."

Bruno sighed and walked over to the POW, close enough to nudge his hand. "I know it's been scary for you lately. But things will get better, I promise."

The POW hesitantly stroked Bruno's fur. "I'm not trying to cause trouble, honest. But when old Klink started talking today about how the Krauts have turned everything around, and how the war is lost for the Allies...I just couldn't take the thought of sticking around here anymore. I had to get out!"

"But you must hang on, you know."

"Why?"

The bleak question wrung Bruno's heart, and he said slowly, "Our friend Heidi used to read to us from a book. There was one part that she liked very much: 'And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.' "

"What do you mean?"

Bruno took a deep breath. "You must have faith that the forces of good will eventually succeed. And you must have hope that the world will be a better place when the war is over."

"And love? What could you know about love?"

"I'm a dog. Giving love is what we do." Bruno paused, looking up at him. "Maybe...maybe you had a dog once. A dog like me."

The POW snuffled, wiping his nose with his sleeve. "I did...old Rex. He died when I was twelve...it hurt so bad. I thought I was never going to be happy again."

"But you were happy eventually, weren't you?"

"Yeah...after a while."

"Because you never forgot how much you loved him, and how much he loved you."

The young man nodded. "Yeah..."

"Isn't that worth staying safe for? So you can go home to the people you love, and who love you?"

"Yeah...Mom and Dad and the kids will be expecting me, I guess."

Bruno took hold of the prisoner's sleeve in his teeth and tugged gently. "Let's go back to the barracks now."

"Okay." The human allowed himself to be drawn into the shadows and the two edged along the building until the barracks door was reached.

Bruno watched as the POW slipped inside. "Good luck," he whispered.

* * *

Jeff managed to enter the barracks without attracting attention. Sergeant Riley was singing a wistful version of "I'll Be Home for Christmas" and all of the guys were humming along as Jeff fumbled his way to his bunk and sank down on it.

Somebody handed him a cookie and he looked up. "Thanks."

He bit into the cookie; gosh, he hadn't tasted anything this good in a long time. Maybe things weren't so bad...maybe he could make it after all. And maybe he could stay busy by helping Sergeant Wilson in the infirmary or something. What had possessed him to go outside tonight, anyway? And that dog...

But it was strange...he really couldn't remember much about his encounter with the dog. Except that the dog hadn't been scary...sort of reminded him of old Rex, in a way. It would be nice to have a dog like that once he got back to the States. And someday soon, Jeff would be going home; he just knew it. All he had to do was hang on...and hope.


End file.
